


Santa's Helper

by Antheas_Blackberry, Lavender_and_Vanilla



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Advent, Caretaking, Christmas, Cold, Father Christmas - Freeform, Greg is grumpy when sick, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Mycroft is whiny when sick, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Sherlock being a somewhat decent brother, Sherlock is a Brat, Sickfic, mystrade, santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 07:38:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12930606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/pseuds/Lavender_and_Vanilla
Summary: Greg is looking forward to playing Father Christmas. Mycroft is looking forward to being able to breathe again.





	1. 15 December 2017

**Author's Note:**

> Both Lavender_and_Vanilla and I will have individual works going up later in the month, but we wrote this one together.

**15 December 2017**

It wasn’t until after the twelfth sneeze from Mycroft that evening and the twelfth blessing from Greg that the DI took a good long look at his partner.

“You’ve come down with a cold,” he announced, laying down the book he’d been reading. 

Down at the other end of the sofa Mycroft wiped his nose with his handkerchief before answering. “My throat is a bit dry and I feel a touch worn down.”

“Yeah, and you’re sniffling and have sneezed twelve times in two hours. It isn’t April; it’s December. You have a cold.”

“That is a reasonable conclusion.” Mycroft went back to reading the briefs he’d brought home. 

“Aw, Christ.” Greg muttered. 

Mycroft looked back up from his papers and peered at Greg over the top of his reading specs. “What? I am not sure how it affects you?”

“Are you kidding me? You are the biggest baby on the planet, barring your brother, when you are sick. Of course, I’ll catch it next, nursing you, and I can’t be ill next week. I promised Molly and John I’d be Father Christmas for the children in St. Bart’s over the holidays.”

“I apologize in advance for inconveniencing you next week.” Mycroft snapped.

Greg sighed. “Sorry, love. I shouldn’t be borrowing trouble and blaming it all on you. I’ll just have to be careful.” Mycroft nodded accepting Greg’s apology. There was a moment of silence, and then Greg stood, saying, “I’m going to make myself some Emergen-C. You want some tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

“With lemon and honey?”

“Please.”

“Yeah, you’re sick.”

Mycroft sighed at Greg’s retreating back. He was exhausted. He had really hoped that the weary feeling he had been experiencing the past two days was just down to a lack of sleep, rather than illness. He also didn’t want to _inconvenience_ Greg either, but there was little that they could do at this juncture. He was unwell, and Greg was already exposed.

Later that evening, Mycroft was getting ready for bed as Greg was coming out of the en suite having brushed his teeth. The older man sat down on his side of the bed and removed his watch as he prepared for sleep.

Mycroft looked over at him as he returned his braces to their proper drawer. 

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked. There was a hint of irritability and stuffiness in his voice.

Greg looked confused. “Getting ready to sleep?”

“Oh, I rather thought you were going to sleep in the spare room.” 

Greg wasn’t sure if his partner was attempting to pick a fight or was concerned for his welfare. He chose the path of least resistance.

“I said I was sorry!”

Wincing, Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and then suddenly turned away to sneeze.

“Bless you,” Greg offered.

“Thank you. My apologies.” Mycroft reached for the tissues and tended to his nose, wincing again.

Greg frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Mycroft tossed the tissues into the bin nearby. “My head is absolutely splitting,” he said as he sank down onto the bed next to Greg.

Greg studied him and he could see tight, fine lines around Mycroft’s eyes.

“Oh love, why didn’t you say?”

“I did not wish to be a bother,” came the reply. Or a _baby_ , Mycroft thought to himself.

Greg really regretted his earlier words now. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean what I said. It isn’t your fault.” He reached over and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Let me get you something for your head.” Sniffling damply, Mycroft nodded and reached for the tissues on the bedside table.  
Greg returned shortly with a dose of Night Nurse and a large glass of water. Mycroft took the medication as Greg stood by fluffing pillows and stacking them up. “In you go, love,” he said once Mycroft was ready for bed. Greg tucked his partner in bed, dropping a kiss on his forehead.


	2. 16-17 December

**16-17 December 2017 ******

********

********

The next morning was Saturday and Greg was scheduled to work the weekend. A bargain he’d made to have the upcoming holiday off. He headed out a little early leaving Mycroft snoring in their bed. Greg wanted to stop at the Boots to pick up Vitamin C and Echinacea on his way into work. He was bound and determined not to get Mycroft’s cold.

His day was going fairly smoothly. The Boots had what he was looking for, plus Lemsip and some disinfecting wipes he planned to use on all the surfaces at home. He heard back from the costume rental that they’d have a Father Christmas costume ready for him next week. The donuts were fresh and Donovan saved one with sprinkles for him. He’d spoken to Sherlock about coming by to go over some evidence for a case on which they’d been working.

“There’s something about these statements that don’t make sense to me. Maybe you can figure it out.” Greg handed Sherlock a sheaf of folders. Sherlock took them as he gave Greg a withering look. “Right, you’ll figure it out and I’ll feel like an idiot.”

Greg’s mobile chimed.

“You still on for the Christmas party for the kids at St. Bart’s next week?” John asked as Sherlock spread the folders across the conference table.

Greg’s mobile chimed.

“Yeah. Heard from the rental shop this morning. I’m all set.” Greg replied.

Greg’s mobile chimed.

He continued on to John. “I’m quite looking forward to it really. It’s been years since the girls were little and excited over Christmas. You miss it, you know. The excitement the kids have this time of year.”

Greg’s mobile chimed.

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock snapped. “Find out what my brother wants. It’s obvious he’s home ill.”

Greg sheepishly took out his mobile to check the messages.

“Why do you say he’s ill, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Because he’s texting. Repeatedly.” Sherlock moved to the other side of the table to look at pictures of the crime scene. “If he wasn’t ill, he’d call. Once. But he’s texting indicating he is probably hoarse and his throat hurts. He’s doing it repeatedly also indicating he is sick, because he’s quite whiny when he feels unwell.”

John looked over at Greg. “Mycroft under the weather?”

“Yeah, he’s got a bit of a cold.” Greg replied. His mobile chimed yet again as he scrolled through his messages from Mycroft. “He’s fine though.” Sherlock snorted.

* Is Dr. Watson there with you? –MH *

* I have a very important question. –MH *

* I think I am dehydrated. –MH *

* It is imperative you ask him if it is possible to dehydrate from the amount of phlegm one produces with a cold. –MH *

Greg grimaced and typed a reply.

* Ew! I love you, but that is tmi. –GL *

Sherlock spoke peering over Greg’s shoulder. “Tell him you can lose 1 liter of fluid a day through nasal secretions, though given the size of his nose it is probably closer to 2 liters for him.”

“Oi! Don’t read my messages. These are private.” Greg turned away to answer Mycroft’s query with the information Sherlock had given and promise to pick up orange juice on his way home. 

“Please.” Sherlock scoffed.

“Serve you right to get an eyeful of kissing emojis.” Greg muttered. Sherlock gagged and John laughed. “Now what do you think about the case?”

“They are all lying. Re-interview them and ask specifically about the business deal with the sister.”

Greg’s mobile chimed.

“Ugh! More texts. We’re leaving. I have no desire to hear of Mycroft’s whining second hand.” Sherlock tossed the file he was holding to the table and marched off in a huff. 

The weekend passed in a haze of police work intermixed with pots of tea and bowls of soup and punctuated by nights of poor sleep. Greg had lost count of the tissues he’d passed and the blessings he’d given to Mycroft. Not to mention the number of texts and calls he’d gotten at work. He was concerned his super would reprimand him for his personal phone use if the man was made aware of the amount time Greg spent reassuring Mycroft his cold was not a super virus devised by the Russians. 

What probably took the biscuit was the text that sent Greg to 221B Baker Street to pick up “a package of extreme importance”. 

“Alright, Sherlock. I’m here for this package. Greg announced as he came up the stairs. “Did one of your irregulars find something the secret squirrels mislaid?” 

Sherlock didn’t look up from his microscope. He gestured to the table next to his chair. “It’s 30 pounds.” 

Greg picked up the rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. “Whoa, it’s very light.”

Sherlock held out his hand.

Understanding dawned on Greg. “30 quid?” Greg dug for his wallet. “I assume this is for your contact?”

“No, it’s for me. It’s not easy to get these, especially this time of year.” Sherlock accepted the offered bills and shoved them in his robe pocket.

“What is this?” Greg looked uneasily at the package in his hands.

“Did my brother not tell you?” Sherlock looked up from his work. 

“Ah, no.”

Sherlock grinned evilly. “You are holding three boxes of the highest quality lotion infused tissues from America.”

Greg gawped at the package and then at Sherlock. He shook his head as he left, muttering under his breath something about over indulged, spoiled boyfriends.


	3. 18 December 2017

**18 December 2017**

So by Monday Greg was relieved Mycroft felt well enough to be back at work even if he chose to seclude himself in his office. The texting and calling was still excessively frequent but at least there was a little more variety to the annoyances making Mycroft so peevish. Still, Greg thought he could see the light at the end of the tunnel and was pretty sure he’d dodged catching Mycroft’s cold. 

Mycroft wasn’t so sure Tuesday morning that Greg had been so lucky…


	4. 19 December 2017

**19 December 2017 ******

********

********

While Mycroft had been steadily improving, he was still overly congested. As a result, he wasn’t sleeping well, and woke frequently in the night. At one point, he gave up on sleep, and turned on his bedside lamp to read. He observed his partner’s restlessness. Greg was tossing, turning, and snuffling in his sleep, a most definite precursor to illness in his partner.

“Oh Gregory. I am sorry,” he whispered into the dim early morning light.

A few hours later Mycroft was awoken by a vociferous sneeze. Blinking his eyes, he rolled over to look at Greg. “Bless you,” he said quietly.

Greg grumbled his thanks and rolled out of bed towards the en suite, sniffling damply. Mycroft, stretching, sighed. It was going to be a long couple of days.

As expected, Greg refused any discussion regarding his health, being adamant that he was perfectly fine. He bolted a bowl of Weetabix and a handful of vitamin C for breakfast and left before any hints about taking it easy could be dropped. Mycroft could do nothing more than shake his head in disbelief as he watched Greg down another glass of Emergen-C later that evening.


	5. 20 December 2017

**20 December 2017**

In the morning, Mycroft watched his partner sluggishly ready himself for work, and considered what he could do to help Greg feel better. Any caregiving Mycroft offered would need to be done subtly. Greg was an extremely irritable man when ill, much like a grizzly bear awakened from its hibernation too soon. The slightest hint that he might be ill before he acknowledged it himself would be met with terse rebuttal and slammed doors. 

That Greg was certainly ill was obvious to any moron. His movements were slow indicating an achiness in his muscles and he shivered periodically. The former was due to his broken down office chair and the latter he blamed on the furnace not working properly. Mycroft forbore making any comments or remarking on Greg’s sniffling, throat clearing, and periodic bouts of sneezing.

Mycroft dressed himself quickly to beat Greg to the kitchen. He brewed a pot of tea and made oatmeal sweetened with honey for their breakfast. He also filled a thermos with honey-sweetened tea for Greg to take to work with him. Before Greg made it downstairs, Mycroft managed to sneak a travel pack of tissues and a packet of paracetemol into the pocket of Greg’s coat. 

“What’s this?” Greg eyed the breakfast spread suspiciously. It was not their usual toast and eggs or Weetabix and milk. 

“My throat is still feeling a bit tender,” Mycroft explained. “I thought the oatmeal would be soothing. I can make you toast if…”

“No, this is fine.” Greg sat down wearily. He took a drink from his mug. “I suppose your sore throat is why you made the tea with honey and lemon.”

“Of course, I should have thought to ask if you wanted your tea prepared differently. Apologies.” Mycroft appeared chagrinned at his supposed thoughtlessness.

“I don’t mind.” Greg coughed. “It’s rather dry in here today. Something is wrong with the humidifier.”

“I can have it and the furnace checked if you like.”

Greg only grunted and applied himself to his breakfast. Resigned, Mycroft sighed quietly and took a sip of tea, wondering exactly how long this charade would go on.


	6. 21 December 2017

**21 December 2017**

Greg stared glumly at the soup in front of him and pushed his spoon around the bowl. 

“Is there something wrong, dear?” Mycroft asked from across the table. He knew exactly what was wrong.

Greg mumbled under his breath.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand you.”

Greg sat up and looked at Mycroft. “I said, ‘Fine, you win. I’m sick’.” 

“I’m not sure how I win in this case, but I am happy to hear you finally admit you’re ill. I was beginning to believe I would need to concoct a spectacular relapse to keep you from going to hospital tomorrow.” Mycroft dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. 

Greg glared at Mycroft. “You’re kidding, right? I promised John and Molly I’d. . . ,” he began, but he was cut off by a violent pair of sneezes.

Mycroft pushed the box of tissues that was on the table towards his partner. “Bless you, dear.” He paused a moment and then decided that he would need to be as blunt as possible, despite the consequences. “And that is exactly why you cannot go tomorrow, Gregory. These are immunocompromised children. For you to go in your condition would be highly inappropriate.” And dangerous, he thought to himself.

Greg coughed into the tissues he had plucked from the nearby box. He knew Mycroft was right, but he also knew he couldn’t let the poor kids down. Sniffling and sulking, he stared down at his soup, stirring it listlessly, as if it would solve the problem at hand. Obviously, someone was going to have to take his place. But who? No one, that’s who. Greg sighed and pushed the soup away. 

“I’m going to bed. I’m sure I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”

Mycroft stared at his partner dumbfounded. “You are not going to be well by morning. It’s foolishness to believe so.”

“I have to be. I have to be Father Christmas tomorrow!” Greg snapped before coughing violently. The spasm went on for long enough for Mycroft to stand up, fetch a glass of water, and bring it over to his partner. He rubbed Greg’s back, thinking back to where he’d last seen the man’s inhaler. Finally, Greg managed to stop coughing, but only because of the forceful sneeze the fit precipitated.

Mycroft frowned. “Bless you. Gracious, are you alright, Gregory?”

Greg drank from the glass of water and then wiped his damp eyes and nose with some tissues. He slumped down in his chair. Mycroft resumed his seat. 

“I guess I’m not going to be Father Christmas,” Greg said, resigned.

“Surely someone else can do it?” Mycroft asked gently, not wanting Greg to irritate himself into another bout of coughing.

“Who do you suggest, Mycroft? You?” Greg gave Mycroft an incredulous look.

“Yes.” Mycroft was a bit shocked by the word leaving his mouth, if he was honest.

“What?” Greg blinked at his partner in disbelief.

“It was my cold you caught. I will stand in your place as Father Christmas.” Mycroft spoke more bravely than he felt. The thought of a roomful of children wanting to sit on his lap nearly gave him hives but he was not going to let his virus riddled partner set foot on the children’s ward of St. Bart’s. 

Greg looked at Mycroft skeptically. “The costume won’t fit you.”

“I’ll have Anthea find one that does fit.”

“Do you even know how to play Father Christmas?”

Mycroft snorted. “How difficult can it be to let children sit on your lap while you make promises you can’t keep? It sounds like a typical day at Downing Street, without the lap sitting.”

“You’re a cynical bastard.”

“Yes, but I’m not full up of cold and that is the only thing that matters.”

Greg shrugged. “Fine. You can do it.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and began to text.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m letting John know that I am not able to be there tomorrow, but you have graciously offered to take my place.”

“Good.” Mycroft looked at his soup and realized he no longer had an appetite. “I suppose I should advise Anthea of her latest mission.” His mobile buzzed.

* You as Father Christmas? –SH *

* Needs must, brother-mine. –MH *

* Good thing you haven’t been holding back on the Christmas biscuits. –SH * 

Mycroft scowled at the screen, but before he could reply another text came through.

* Only a serial killer could be more fun than this. –SH *

“What’s wrong My?” Greg asked from behind a handful of tissues. He could see Mycroft’s face starting to turn red. 

“Sherlock…” he muttered.

*How is it I’m so lucky? –SH *

* Your joy at my misfortune is not seemly. –MH *

* Oh, it’s Christmas! –SH *


	7. 23 December 2017

**23 December 2017**

Mycroft quietly let himself in the door. He hung up his overcoat, slipped off his shoes and carefully moved down the darkened hallway. He could hear the television was on in the drawing room. When he entered the room he found Greg asleep on the couch. He’d pulled the chenille blanket over him and was snoring loudly. Mycroft turned on a side table lamp as he passed by to turn off the television. He frowned at the used tissues scattered about the floor in front of the sofa. Leaning over his partner he gently shook Greg’s shoulder. 

“Gregory, wake up, dear.” 

Greg snorted and slowly came awake. Coughing into the blanket, he sat up. “You’re home,” he stated unnecessarily. 

“Yes.” Mycroft smiled affectionately at his lover, watching him gradually awaken. The man’s spikey silver hair was sticking out every which way adding to the charm of his sleepy dark eyes and cold roughened voice. 

“How was it?” Greg sniffled and coughed again. 

“Fine.” Mycroft sat next to Greg and draped his arm over the back of the sofa. Greg leaned against him. “Sherlock took video of the whole affair. I’m sure he will be happy to show you the highlights, if not the entire video.”

“Oh good. I was worried I’d not get to see you in the costume. I bet you were a sexy Santa.”

Mycroft huffed. “Santa is not meant to be sexy.”

“He is if it’s you.” Greg stretched up to kiss Mycroft’s still chapped and pink nose. Mycroft tipped his head and captured Greg’s lips to deliver a tender kiss. The kiss was briefly returned before Greg had to pull away to sneeze harshly into the blanket. “Ugh, sorry.”

Amused, Mycroft kissed Greg’s cheek. “Bless you, dear. Let’s go to bed. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Neither of us have any responsibilities. We can stay home and take care of your cold.”

“I hadn’t heard that euphemism before.” Greg replied cheekily.

“Incorrigible man.” Mycroft murmured fondly.

FIN


End file.
